A Better Metaphor
by grandvizier527
Summary: Gin Rummy had always known that as long as he stuck with the Wunclers and stayed white, he could do whatever he wanted. But justice isn't blind; Gin's about to discover that it's more like a missile. Currently on hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

Gin could feel the scalding Iraqi sands slip through his fingers as he was forced to lie prostrate on the ground, the only things in his vision being the angry face of an Arabic man and the glare of the sun. He tried to move his arms and reach for a gun, but when he tried to move his hands they seemed to touch emptiness. He found that he couldn't turn his head to look about him, either.

_Fuckin' towelheads have me pinned down,_ he thought, although he had no idea how they had done it. He tried to recall what had led him into this position, but his mind seemed to go blank at remembering. He couldn't remember how he had ended up here. He knew _why _he was here, but it was the how that confused him.

He thought of his fellow troops, wherever they were. Surely they would come to his rescue. But where were they? He didn't remember any of them except for Ed Wuncler III, but he wasn't here. Where had he and the others gone? Looks like Gin Rummy would have to break himself out.

"You mothafuckas can't hold me forever! I'm an _American, _godammit!" Gin cried, trying once more to move his arms and legs. This time he could move them, but they seemed to drift about uselessly, even when it was clear that they should have made contact with his captor. The Iraqi ignored him and continued to stare him down. Up until that point Gin had avoided making eye contact, but now he had no choice but to do so in an attempt to read his thoughts.

"The fuck you lookin' at me like that for?! You gonna shoot me or what?" Gin Rummy asked. The fear of being captured or killed had subsided and replaced by bewilderment now.

"You are no American," the Iraqi told him, his voice a low rasp. Strangely enough, despite the fact that his face was close enough, Gin couldn't feel his breath at all when he spoke. "You are a disgrace to your people. Your sins are not unnoticed by God."

"The fuck you know 'bout God, you're a Muslim! Yer just a bunch of terrorists!" Gin Rummy cried, attempting once more to break free of his predicament. The Iraqi replied:

"I know more of God than you, that much is certain. If you knew of God then you would know that he does not let sin go unpunished forever. Now is the day in which His justice is carried out." And with that the Iraqi got up and left Gin Rummy on the ground. Gin tried to get up to follow him, but once more he was still pinned down, even though there didn't appear to be anything to hold him down.

He suddenly heard a loud booming sound, and he could feel his body rocked by an explosion of some sort. Gin found himself tossed about through the sand, landing on his back again a few yards away from where he had been. He suddenly heard yelling and briefly grew excited. It had to be his fellow troops. They were clearly yelling in English, but no one seemed to have spotted him yet. Maybe now they'd get him out of this.

After a few seconds the yells appeared less frequently, overtaken by the noise of gunshots and the occasional tank fire. Fear gripped Gin Rummy as he heard American voices of distress give way to the sounds of "Allah Akbar!" and the rattle of machineguns. Gin Rummy was, for the first time in his life, afraid of the enemy, terrified that they stood a chance of defeating American ideals and its troops, and more importantly him. He suddenly heard the sounds of tank treads and grew hopeful as they grew louder. Somehow he was finally able to stand up and waved excitedly to get the tank to notice him. Finally, America had brought in the big guns! The tank took notice of him, but rather than a friendly face opening up it pointed its gun at him.

Gin was confused. The Iraqis weren't supposed to have tanks! Who was the crazy guy in there? Then he stopped, giving a chuckle. Of course, it was just Ed, he'd be crazy enough to try and make him shit his pants in a war zone.

"Ok Ed, that was good! Now pick me up and get me out of here!" Gin Rummy cried. But then the tank fired directly at him, being no close for him to get out of the way. There was nothing Gin Rummy could do to withstand the blast. As he felt his lights go dim, he heard the voice of an African American boy say apathetically:

"We all have to pay for our crimes eventually."

. . . . .

Gin Rummy suddenly found himself sitting upright in bed, drenched in his own sweat. Of course. The damn thing had just been a dream. There no crimes to pay for, no war anymore. Obama had gotten the troops out of Iraq. It was over. America had won, and he had won. He could do whatever he wanted now. He was white, and he was American, Godammit! But he was also a little scared.

The fact that someone was hammering at the door of his house didn't help. He clumsily made his way out of his bedroom and opened up the door, knowing that based on the characteristics of the knock he wouldn't have to get properly dressed.

"THERE YOU ARE, LAZY-ASS!" Ed Wuncler cried, attempting to grip Gin Rummy's hand with a handshake. Gin was too disoriented to even raise his arms.

"Hey, Ed. Sup?" Gin said sleepily, looking out behind Ed to see that it was early morning.

"Man, was you sleepin'? Didn't I tell you not to sleep before the hit?!" Ed cried. Gin racked his brain a bit to try and remember what Ed was talking about. He remembered that Ed had suggested the day before that they rob a jewelry store under the pretext that Ed's girlfriend wanted something nice. Gin also remembered that the real reason for this was that Ed Wuncler the first had enlisted his grandson to "intimidate" some of the local jewelry store owners so that they would be "coerced" into forming a trust or merging with the jewelry stores Wuncler already owned. Apparently it was a lucrative business.

"Yeah, I remember. Just forgot, I guess. Gimme me a minute, need to eat and wash up," Gin Rummy told his friend. Ed rolled his eyes and slammed the door.

"20 minutes or I'm goin' without ya and you get nothin'!" he cried. Gin then set about to get ready for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

Water. The simple compound had gained new relevance to Gin after being in Iraq for so long. There hadn't been much of it back in the deserts of Iraq other than what the troops had been issued. There was the occasional well, but the water in those was too impure for someone like Gin, unaccustomed to water that wasn't filtered. Now that he had been back home for years he was readjusted to the abundant supply of water from before.

He thought about water somewhat abstractly as he took his morning shower, hoping to clean off whatever impurities that had collected on him during the night in his sleep. But try as he might to clean himself, Gin couldn't shake the feeling that he couldn't completely clean himself. He decided not to give it much thought and dressed in his usual clothes: white sleeveless shirt and jeans. After munching on an orange from his kitchen and swallowing a little water (his cherishing of the drink compelled him to drink a little every morning), he popped a mint into his mouth to bypass teeth-brushing an opened the door to rejoin Ed, who was dozing off.

"The hell's wrong witchu?" Ed said with disdain after Gin woke him up. Gin couldn't figure out for the life of him what it was Ed was trying to point out, so he shrugged.

"What kinda frenna mine goes around tryin' to HIDE who he is?" Ed asked rhetorically. "Put yo headband on, fool! Sumpin' ain't right 'bout ya today, Rummy."

"Aw, shit! Thanks man. Yeah, can't believe I forgot the fuckin' headband!" Gin Rummy exclaimed, ashamed of himself for forgetting it. Ed's words rang true and reminded him of when they first met in Iraq. Gin had bought the headband on a whim of patriotism before being deployed. When Gin went back to retrieve his headband and put it on, the memories came flooding back:

_What's the headband for? Blockin' headshots?_

_Naw, man, it's the symbol of Revolution and shit! America had itself a mothafuckin' revolution, and so did France! We kicked Britty ass, and the French did even better and made themselves an EMPIRE!_

_France! Ain't they jest a buncha homos and ugly hairy bitches?_

_Not back then they weren't. They had a piece a' shit king, and instead of kickin' his ass like we did with ours they killed that motherfucker and chopped his head off! We inspired'em to break free of the assholes rulin' over them like we did! An' they did a better job than us, too! Got rid of kings, got rid of religion, made e'rbody equal an' shit. Did it all WAY before we could set around to it, though Washin'ton wanted to. Course' now they a bunch a whiny bitches, so we're takin' the torch back from them and spreadin' democracy to Iraq! They ain't never gonna have no more kingly Sadam Insanes and religion and inequality and shit oppressin them! That's what we HERE FOR, brotha! To give'em FREEDOM!_

_Man, that's some wicked deep words. But why you wearin' that thing now? This ain't the 1700s._

_No it ain't. But the ideas of the revolution live on, only nobody's realized it. That's why I wear this thing: to remind them of democracy, where we all gotta be at even if we don't want to, cause' it's the best way! We know what's best for the other folks, and what they need are people like us!_

Such words had been said in naiveté, Gin recalled. He actually had known very little of the French Revolution, or of the American one for that matter. But that hadn't mattered in Iraq. They had achieved what they set out to do. The mission had been accomplished, and all mistakes and casualties were justified.

But as he went out the door to join Ed, he thought about what the headband meant to him now. They weren't about to go rob a jewelry store in the name of democracy. So what did it mean instead? What ideology did the headband now stand for? Gin knew the answer, but he didn't want to say it.


	3. Chapter 3

Gin Rummy climbed in the car with Ed and figured it was best to just not question _why _he was doing what he was doing. Just do it. Yeah, like that Nike slogan. But before he could let that derail his train of thought, Ed spoke up.

"Sumpin' wrong wi tchu, Gin? Yer all quiet an' shit. Usully' talkin' 'bout how ya hate iPhones and all them new techy stuff. Now they got this sweet thang called a Google Glass, and lets ya record shit just by lookin' at it! Gonna get gramps to get me wunna those so I can frickin' RECORD bitches in strip clubs doin' their strippin'! Howzzat sound?"

"Cool, man. Can we just get to the jewelry store an' do what needs doin'? Not in the mood, ok?" Gin propped his chin up on his elbow and stared out the window, waiting for Ed to recklessly drive to where they needed to be. No questions about it. Ed wasn't sure what to make of Gin's sudden aloofness, but as he swerved into the driveway of a house his concerns for his friend faded.

Gin sat up and turned to Ed, who immediately dashed out of the car and headed into the house. Looking at from the outside, Gin could tell why he had stopped here: it was the Freeman residence.

"Ed, what's wrong?" Gin called out as Ed proceeded to kick down the front door with his foot.

"Gotta go take a dump REAL BAD!" Ed cried in reply. In a mad frenzy he sent the door falling over and dashed down the Freeman hallway. Gin could hear cries of surprise and anger from the Freemans as Ed broke into their home. He had no choice but to follow his comrade and hope he didn't cause too much damage. Approaching where the front door once stood, Gin found himself face to face with an infuriated Robert Freeman.

"DID YOU SEE WHAT JUST HAPPENED?! Ed Wuncler knocked down my front door! How?! Why?! Why me?! And now's he's usin' MY TOILET! NOBODY USES MY TOILET BUT MEEE!" Gin said nothing, thinking it would be best for Grandad to just vent his understandable anger on him. But maybe there was something he could do to ease the tension?

"Look, sorry 'bout Ed," Gin replied nervously. He couldn't bear to face Grandad's angry glare so he simply stared down at the ground. "He just had to go to the bathroom for some reason. I didn't know what he was doin', drivin' up here. How 'bout I fix your door, pops?"

"Good! That'll fit the punishment of breakin' and enterin'!" Grandad agreed.

"I haven't actually entered your house, you know. Only Ed did."

"Just fix the damn door so I can forget this happened! I just HATE having the sanctity of my home violated! Thank God I wasn't on one a them Skypin' dates or I would'na been dressed!" Grandad immediately turned back to his house, eyeing the bathroom Ed was in and seeing if the boys were nearby. Apparently they had ignored the whole thing.

"BOYS! GET DOWN HERE!" Robert's call was met with a "WHY?!"

"CUZ ED BROKE DOWN OUR DOOR! NOW HELP GIN RUMMY OUT OR I'LL MAKE YA CLEAN UP ED'S SHIT!" Riley immediately bounded down the stairs, partially because his grandpa's threat scared him and partially because he was a little curious as to what exactly had happened here. Huey followed him, with slightly less curiosity.

"Aw man! You niggas broke down the door! Well, guess you ain't technically niggas, but y'all know what I mean!" Riley observed the damage, and his eyes widened. The door had simply fallen forward as if it were a piece of cardboard. There was no hole or anything indicating that Ed had damaged it, other than a few subtle dents on one side and the frailty of the wood on the other.

"Ed had to go poop. Couldn't stop him because he didn't exactly tell me what he was doin'," Gin sheepishly explained.

"Ew, that's nasty! Usin' another nigga's toilet! He's gettin' all his ass germs all up in the main bathroom!" Riley declared in dismay as he struggled to lift up one side of the door while Gin lifted the other. Gin was strong enough to lift up his end, but it was clear that Riley wasn't. The boy's knees trembled and his arms quivered as he tried to lift the door back upright with Gin.

"Exactly, boy! See why I called ya down here? Now, Huey!" Grandad cried, pointing to Huey the moment he saw him coming down the stairs, "When Ed gets out you're cleaning up his mess!"

"Why do I have to do it?" Huey asked.

"Cuz I saw ya right when I needed somebody to do somethin'! You know the rule in this house! When I see a task that needs doin' the person that does it is the first person I see!"

"But Riley came down before me. And you saw Ed break into the house first before anyone else. Shouldn't _he, _in accordance with your rules, be the one to clean up his shit?" Huey protested. Robert sighed.

"Boy, can't you just shut up and do what I ask? I ain't goin' in there! Now if you'll all excuse me, I gotta get back upstairs and…check the orange juice supply!" Grandad immediately went back upstairs, ignoring the situation he had put the others into. Huey begrudgingly glanced at the bathroom door, dreading whenever it was that Ed would get out. He could hear him moan and groan in there, along with some other unpleasant sounds, but there was no telling when he'd be out.

Looking at Huey, Gin felt sorry for him, given what his grandpa was making him do. "Huey, I need you to help me and Riley with the door. Forget about Ed, I'll take care of him."

"Thanks, man," Huey muttered as he joined them in restoring the door to its original position.

"Now try not to mess with it too much until you can get some new hinges or somethin'," Gin advised. Riley, satisfied that the menial labor assigned to him was done, retreated back upstairs as Grandad had done.

"You and Ed are crazy, you know that? Doin' all this crime shit cuz you white and can get away with it. Man, if you two was niggas for ONE DAY…" Riley was too uninterested in the topic to finish the sentence, leaving Gin alone with Huey.

"Man, I'm so sorry for what Ed did. Or is doin'. He's just lost it a little, that's all."

"I don't understand why you tie yourself to him like that," Huey remarked. "He's a complete idiot and reckless lawbreaker. You, on the other hand, seem to have _some _intelligence. Or at least a conscience. Strange that I couldn't tell before."

"That's because I think I got just today. Woke this mornin' and realized, 'Wait, what am I doin' here? Why am I doin' this shit for? What am I getting' outta all this?"

"The proper word is disillusionment," Huey explained. "I've felt it several times. The symptoms go away eventually. You'll go back to your old self with your white karma in no time." Judging by the phrase "white karma", Gin could tell that Huey was clearly holding back something. Anger? Jealousy? Both? Or something different? Regardless, Gin knew he wasn't happy about the fact that he and Ed could essentially do whatever they want—all because they were white. Even the present situation applied: Grandad mentioned breaking and entering, but he hadn't made any signs of showing that he wanted to report this to the police. The Freemans, like everyone else in Woodcrest, had resigned themselves long ago to the fact that the Wunclers ran the scenes and got away with everything.

"I don't know, Huey. I think I'm startin' to realize what I'm doin' with my life. An' now that I've thought it, I can't unthink it. Nah' mean? I mean, today I'm goin' with Ed and robbin' a jewelry store for some Wuncler thing, but after that? I don't know."

"I see. Was _this _the straw that broke the camel's back?" Huey asked. "You know, we all have to pay for our crimes eventually. Maybe something in your head is giving you a warning?"

"I don't know 'bout that, but I do know how this got started. It was a dream I had last night," Gin explained. "I was in Iraq. Damn towelheads were breathin' down my face, sayin' somethin' 'bout payin' for my sins. I couldn't move for some reason. Then I got up somehow, and I thought maybe my war buddies were rescuin' me. But then I heard more a' them Iraqis, and then a tank showed up! They ain't supposed to have had tanks, but they did in my dream. And the tank shot at me, an' I heard a kid sayin' 'We all have to pay for our crimes eventually'. Sounded just like…_you."_

"Look, don't go around havin' dreams about me!" exclaimed in horror. "I don't wanna be involved in it! I mean, sure, dreams are technically the product of our subconscious and we can't control them, but still—just control your subconscious!"

"I'll try, I guess," Gin promised, unsure if it was one he could keep. "But it was just your voice, not you yourself. And when you said it just now it sounded _exactly _like the way you said it in my dream."

"Strange. But I wouldn't look much into it. It's most likely some last desperate plea from your conscience not to engage in blatantly criminal behavior."

"Well, it's not exactly 'criminal' since we ain't gettin' caught," Gin said. "We can't get caught cause we're white, like you said. It may not be fair, but it's some justification. I mean, see this headband?" Gin demanded, pointing to it.

"What about it? I see the colors of the French—oh, I see. So you justify your actions—or at least you used to—in the name of _democracy _and _freedom_?"

"Naw, man. That's what I used to justify my time in Iraq," Gin said, letting the words slip out of his mouth. "Now I do what I do cuz' it's just fake capitalism. Fake competition and fake fairness. Dog eat dog world, I guess. We're maintainin' order, Ed and I."

"You genuinely believe that?" Huey asked in surprise. Here, he saw, was a man that had so deluded himself in his ideologies that he had found a way to suppress the doubts he had had just a moment ago. Doublethink at its finest.

"I—guess I do—did, whatever," Gin replied. "It's just how the world works."

"Not entirely," Huey refuted. "The whole world does_ not _exist due to the efforts of the dishonest. Segments of it, yes, and certain aspects of it, yes, but not the whole world. Gin," Huey went on, "I think that dream was you beginning to open your eyes to what you've been doing all those years with the Wunclers. I'd suggest you rethink things. Everything, actually. I can't tell you what to believe, but you better believe in something more reliable. Remember, all ideologies can be corrupted in some way or another. Use some common sense for a change—it'll do ya good." Upon finishing these words, Ed finally burst out of the bathroom.

"Aw…man…I'm done! Ain't NEVER shittin' in a neighbor's house again! They got the worst toilet paper ever! Hey, Gin, get back in the car! Gin?" Gin Rummy wasn't in the mood to answer. He still had more of Ed's mess to clean up.

And as he pondered Huey's words while scrubbing the toilet clean, he wondered if maybe his own life was a bit of mess in and of itself. If so, then his work wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.


	4. Chapter 4

Gin returned home after the jewelry raid, feeling tired and a little confused. The raid had answered none of his questions as to whether what he was doing could possibly be acceptable in any sense of the word.

It had been like any other crime they had committed, the only exception being that Gin actually felt a little guilty about it. The duo had arrived at the store, pointed guns at the patrons, Ed swore at everyone to "Get the fuck down!" while waving his gun around wildly while Gin himself kept his eyes trained on the only other man in the store, evidently here to get something for his wife or girlfriend. The others were just women of various ages, and for the purposes of the raid they weren't all that important in the operation unless they had some sort of hidden fighting ability (but none of them did, it seemed). They weren't important to Ed, either since the only one that was young enough for his tastes was modestly dressed. So Ed just took his time looking for something he thought his girlfriend would like, and then the two left, but not before causing a bit of miscellaneous property damage.

The consequences would be the same; Wuncler I would appear a few days later and make a deal with the owner of the store and coerce him into buying a Wuncler alarm system, as well as coercing him to give Wuncler Industries a share in the profits, seeing as they were providing protection. In exchange, Wuncler would give what was essentially a high bribe to cover the damages and then some, and then everyone would be happy. But Wuncler would be the happiest, as always.

Gin turned on the TV and tried to forget everything. Maybe a little mindless entertainment or something would drown things out. The first thing he saw onscreen was Dr. Martin Luther King himself, reciting his famous "I have a dream," speech for a crowd of eager Canadians that wished to visit the original historic day. It was amazing how he had woken up from that coma, Gin thought. He was compelled to listen even though he had already heard this speech before, just to see if it was any different decades later. Turns out it wasn't, and so most of it didn't stand out especially. Except:

"But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!" _The fuck?_ Gin screamed in his mind. _ I can just turn on the TV and bam, it's talkin' about justice? Does everything HAVE to speak to me like this?_

Gin flipped through the channels, hoping he could find something that wouldn't be so relevant to his life. His remote was a tad slow, so he was forced to hear a few seconds of whatever channel he was currently on before it changed itself. Boring. Already seen it. Ed's favorite movie, but not his. And then…

"Why do you boast about your crimes, great warrior? Don't you realize God's justice continues forever?" The speaker was just some ordinary charismatic pastor, but his words made Gin's blood turn cold. Something about this wasn't right. Was the TV trying to _tell _him something?

"All day long you plot destruction. Your tongue cuts like a sharp razor, you're an expert at telling lies. You love evil more than good and lies more than truth."

Gin shook his head, as if somehow that might make the angry pastor on the other end stop. It didn't.

"God will pull you from your home and uproot you from the land of the living. The righteous will see it and be amazed. They will laugh and say, 'Look what happens to mighty warriors who do not trust in God. They trust their wealth instead and grow bolder in their wickedness.'"

Gin turned off the TV. Maybe tomorrow things would be different. Gin went to sleep without even undressing. The faster he got through the night the better.

. . . . .

He found himself in another dream, although it seemed just as real as the previous one until he woke up. Gin found himself walking into the main entrance to some sort of large metal room. When he opened the door and peered into the darkness, all the lights hanging from the ceiling turned on one by one as he walked beneath them. Gin realized he was inside a prison, given the cells aligned endlessly against the walls and the balcony above him with more cells. Gin kept walking forward, thinking that maybe if he just went through then someone would probably just direct him to the exit. He didn't belong here, after all.

Strangely, all the cells were empty, although Gin wasn't interested in stopping to look. He just saw them out of the corner of his eye as his walk began to turn into a jog. It never occurred to him why he had to even go through this place anyway.

As his footsteps pounded faster and faster on the metal floor in desperation to get out of the prison, he suddenly skidded to a halt as heard even more rapid footsteps getting closer to him. Gin backed up slowly, not able to tell who or what was about to crash into him.

What he saw was surprising; it was Dr. Martin Luther King, once again! This time, however, he seemed much different. He was younger, the same age he had been before his presumed assassination. But he was running at a speed too fast for someone of that age and fitness level, perhaps even too fast for a human to run at all. Before Gin could even say anything, Dr. King suddenly lunged forward and punched Gin in the stomach, sending him sprawling backwards.

Gin was overcome with the pain of the surprisingly strong man's punch, so much so that he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw Dr. King standing over him with what looked to be a high-pressure water hose. From somewhere in his mind Gin recalled that these very same objects had been used against King himself and his associates.

"What the fuck are you doin' this for, man!?" Gin cried in agony. Dr. King stared down at him and scowled, replying only with:

"The floodgates will open soon, and the waters of justice will soon drown you." And then he turned on the hose, the force of the water shoving Gin backwards, causing him to almost slide across the slick metal floor of the prison.

Gin felt helpless as before until he felt his back slam against the door to the entrance. He'd just have to try again, he figured, and so he ran, this time preparing to dodge Dr. King's water blast.

Suddenly, the roof of the prison began to vibrate, and the lights all shook until they fell to the floor one by one. In a massive explosion, the prison ceiling gave way. Gin was wondering what could have caused this when he saw a giant shape emerge in the sky: it appeared to be a giant explosive rocket. Evidently a previous one had caused the destruction of the ceiling, but that didn't matter to Gin as he turned around to flee the prison, leaving by way of the still-intact door.

He ran for his life, assuming that the rocket would just strike the same place it had last time. Chances are he was probably in a war zone again, and so it was best to get out before the place was destroyed by the enemy's giant artillery shells. How had the towelheads even gotten those in the first place, he wondered briefly before continuing his flight of terror.

Gin could hear the roar of the rocket above him just before it landed. But after a few seconds, there was no explosion. What had happened? Gin turned around to look back at the prison and screamed in horror. The rocket was sailing right over the prison and heading straight to him! He tried to head to the right, but on one side he could see the rocket swerving that way as well, as if it could sense his movements. This "rocket" was actually a giant missile!

As the missile roared louder and louder as it approached, Gin Rummy screamed to the sky, "How THE FUCK am I supposed to outrun a FUCKIN' MISSILE?!"

**AN: Yes, there are Bible verses here. Don't worry, there probably won't be any further Biblical references, if you're worried about it ruining the story or something. Jesus does not appear in this story. I just thought that they were particularly relevant to Gin's personal conflict.**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Gin woke up to realize that the bizarre events of before were once again a dream. Now that he had experienced a second dream that haunted him just as badly as the first, he knew that something had to be done, some sort of change in his mind or ideology to get these nightmares—or were they warnings?—to go away. After his usual morning routine was done he withdrew a dusty phonebook from a drawer and searched for the number of any local therapist's office. He found one and scheduled an appointment for later that day, just before lunch.

It was certainly worth trying to discuss with someone besides Huey, Gin thought, but what if it didn't work? Talking about problems usually didn't make them solved; he needed to take some sort of action. He knew now that the dreams and thoughts he'd had were telling him that his lifestyle of crime and no regrets was morally and ethically wrong, and shaking them off seemed impossible. They could only get worse, Gin reasoned, the more criminal activity he and Ed engaged in from now on. Now the feelings of remorse and the demands to question his mindset were a whisper, but he could feel them getting louder as they lodged themselves further into his mind.

"Wait, the fuck am I talkin' about? There's nothing 'lodging itself' in my mind!" Gin declared to reassure himself. "Nothing can take me over unless I want it to! And I don't any reason for it to!" Gin added, as if saying this would make his conscience cease its work, if that was even possible.

"Shit. I'm goin' crazy, havin' battles with my own mothafuckin' mind," Gin mused. He decided to go outside and get some fresh air; maybe he didn't have to _do _anything different at all. Maybe if he just tried to forget about this whole thing, or just found some new friends to hang out with instead of Ed, then the dreams would go away.

He wasn't able to leave his front door before hearing the buzz of a lawnmower. He opened the door to find a familiar and selectively friendly face outside mowing his lawn for him.

"Howdy thar, white neighbor!" Uncle Ruckus waved. Gin frowned. He appreciated his help with his lawn, but Ruckus was definitely not the sort of person that Gin needed to discuss his personal problems with. Maybe if he just got in his car and ignored him…

"Somethin' doesn't seem right 'bout you today, Mistah Gin Rummy. You seem kinda down. And you ain't wearin' yo bandana, or headband or whatever it is those young and hopefully white chilluns call it now days!"

"Uh, yeah. Too hot," Gin explained hastily, feeling his forehead to find that yes, he had again forgotten it this morning.

"Oh, I see," Uncle Ruckus nodded. "Wouldn't want your nice white forehead covered in sweat. Only a nigga would deliberately allow himself to coat his nappy in filth! And then he'd have the nerve to say he looked cool!"

Gin looked at Ruckus in confusion. How was this man able to insert a racist opinion on virtually every topic? And the strange thing, Gin thought, was that he and Ed, by committing various crimes and wreaking havoc on the neighborhood at a moment's notice (breaking down Mr. Freeman's door came to mind) fitted into the "blacks are criminals" stereotype Ruckus held as truth far more than the Freemans, his usual object of hatred. And yet the disruption of the stereotype didn't seem to cause any sort of internal struggle within him at all.

Realizing that gave Gin an idea; perhaps he didn't have to obey his dreams or his newfound guilt. Uncle Ruckus was proof that you could suppress your conscience if it told you that your way of thinking was "wrong" or misguided.

"Hey, uh, could I talk for a sec? Havin' a bit of problem," Gin began.

"Certainly! Anything to help a nice white man like yourself solve his problems. Lemme guess, trouble with hooligans? Is it that Riley fellow? He oughta be locked up for his-!"

"No, it ain't Riley. It's with me. See…" Gin proceeded to tell Uncle Ruckus what had happened to him over the past few days, explaining how he had felt previously and how his feeling guilty now. He explained that he would rather suppress these guilty feelings than change his ways, especially considering he wasn't quite sure what they consisted of. Upon his finishing of the incidents, Uncle Ruckus chuckled.

"I know what yo' problem is. Those so-called ina'lectual niggas is infectin' you with a disease they created, called 'white guilt'. See, to them you guilty cuz' you white! Yo conscience, they'd say, is tryin' to tell ya that you're bein' 'racist', and that you're a horrible person all cuz' your actions are makin' things bad for some poor little black niggas in Woodcrest!"

"You mean the Freemans? They're richer than either of us are," Gin pointed out. Ruckus nodded vigorously in agreement.

"Exactly! There's no reason for ya to feel guilty over them monkey-nosed bastards! They're betta off than us, and we're good honest white men! Well, I would be, but the revitaligo, you know."

"Well, what if it's got nothin' to do with race at all?" Gin suggested, hoping he could get Uncle Ruckus off the topic. As a man heavily influenced by, and an admirer of, African-American culture, he didn't want Uncle Ruckus bad-mouthing the Freemans too much.

"Then ya still ain't got nothin' to worry about! What you and the Wunclers are doin', they ain't crimes! You know why?"

"Why?" Gin asked, eager to get a glimpse inside Uncle Ruckus' hateful mind.

"Cuz' justice is blind! Well, only to white men, but still! Justice can't see nothin' that you do!" Ruckus reassured Gin. "And since you white, your actions HAVE to be good, even if they don't look that way! Don't doubt yourself, Gin, and don't let the niggas infect you with white guilt!" And with that, the racist black man went right back to mowing the lawn.

Gin Rummy shook his head in dismay. There were so many holes in Ruckus' logic, but he still wanted to believe in the same thing he did very badly. Not the racism, of course, but just the idea that the color of his skin was the sole thing that was keeping him away from the law.

Just then, Ed's van drove up to Gin's driveway. Gin smiled at him, trying to remember what Ruckus said. He wasn't going to worry about this crap anymore! Maybe Ruckus had been right, in some twisted way. He sure hoped so.

"Ey, Gin! Glad I found you AWAKE this time!" Ed said, opening the car door and immediately getting out to approach him. Gin got the sense that it was something not meant for Uncle Ruckus to hear.

"Hey, gramps gave me an ass-signment! I'm hittin' a STRIP CLUB tonight! Somebody didn't pay their protection money, so we're doin' some reclaimin!" Ed told Gin excitedly, barely able to keep his voice below a whisper.

"Great!" Gin whispered, having to feign enthusiasm. The last thing he needed right now was to go and do something disreputable in an already disreputable place, but he couldn't just say no to his friend. In fact, Gin had never said no to hardly anything in his life. "But first I gotta go somewhere. Doctor's appointment," Gin explained, which was technically true.

"Lemme guess, checkin' for STDs? Wouldn't wanna spread somethin' to all those sexy bitches," Ed replied. Gin nodded, pretending to agree on this issue.

"I gotta go, man, see ya!" Gin said hurriedly, getting into his own car and preparing to leave for the psychiatrist's office.

"The fuck?" Ed wondered aloud after Gin had left. "Why isn't he wearin' his headband anymore?"

"I dunno. Could be a symptom of the white guilt. He should be better in a few days," Uncle Ruckus said with as much medical authority as he could muster.

"What?"

"Gin Rummy has white guilt, as it's known in the med'cal profession. At least that's what I calls it," Ruckus explained. "He's worried 'bout the stuff he's been doin' with ya. Says he feel's 'guilty' or somethin' when he used to not care before."

Ed frowned, concerned with his friend's health. "Well maybe some cash and women are just what he needs!" He suggested hopefully.

"I sure hope so. Wouldn't want another good white man to get his brain washed by nigga lovers!"

. . . . .

"So what do ya think, Doc?" Gin finished, having explained his troubles for the second time that day.

"Hmm," the psychiatrist began, inhaling deeply as he thought about the possibilities.

"Mr. Rummy—if that is your proper surname—do you have a history of mental illness in your family?"

"Nope."

"Abuse? Physical, emotional, verbal—or sexual?"

"Uh, no. Why'd you pause on the last one?" Gin asked nervously. He really didn't want this man to be exploring whatever sexuality he had apparently been repressing.

"You'd be surprised how much influence Freud has on our practice, despite many of his theories having long been discredited," the psychiatrist explained. "Are you sure that's not what the high-pressure water, the gun of the tank, or the giant missile in your dreams-?"

"NO!" Gin shouted in reply. "It doesn't mean those things."

"Good, we're getting somewhere. We've ruled out the least likely suspects," the psychiatrist went on. Gin wondered why he had settled on something sexual first. Maybe just to get it out of the way, he hoped. "Let's move on to your military associations. It could be PTSD, and I assume you know what that is."

"That's what I thought, for a while," Gin replied. "But that can't be it. Not after the second dream. The war was just a way for my brain to indicate my past, I'll bet. Besides, nothin' tramatic happened. I…enjoyed every minute of my time in Iraq," Gin admitted, thinking back with guilt at the way he had mercilessly gunned down Iraqis. That whole "Don't fire unless fired upon" thing didn't really apply to him, what with the lawyers Ed Wuncler had that could essentially prevent him from being court-martialed. A few days ago he would have looked back at those memories fondly, but now he was beginning to see his past for what it had really been; reckless, violent, illegal, and so much more. And he had _enjoyed _every moment of that? He should have gone to a psychiatrist sooner.

"What makes you think it's not PTSD?" the psychiatrist asked.

"It's not just what happened in the war. It's everything I've ever done involving the Wunclers," Gin explained. "And I was a mothafuckin' fool not to see that until now."

"Well, from what you've told me, it's enough to…well, you know," the psychiatrist trailed off. "I'm obligated to report what you've told me to the police, at least in regards to the crimes. Your feelings can stay a secret with me, though."

"Don't bother callin' the cops," Gin said, leaving on his own. "Justice is blind anyways."

Gin left the psychiatrist's office, now surer than ever of what his mind was trying to tell him. By talking to Uncle Ruckus and that psychiatrist, he had wanted to repress what it was saying. But now it was too deep in his mind to lodge out.

_You are not a freedom fighter. You are not an arbiter of justice. You are not an agent of democracy. You are a criminal._

. . . . .

He told all of this to Huey before going home. He, wise beyond his years, replied:

"I can see why you're telling me this. You want me to tell you how to react next. But really you're just putting it off. You know exactly what to do and think next. The answer is one that very few black people—or white people, or any sort of people, for that matter—are willing to do: turn yourself in."

"I guess. But I can't! The Wunclers would just have me let out somehow. And ain't it enough just to _feel _bad and know what's wrong with me? What if I promise myself not to do any more crimes again?"

"That's easier said than done, especially when you know you can get away with them," Huey pointed out.

"Yeah, well what 'bout you? Weren't you a revolutionary or something?"

"Retired, a former revolutionary and black nationalist. But yes," Huey admitted somewhat proudly. "I was those things."

"Then how come you ain't gotta pay for all the messed up shit you did—or said?" Gin demanded, becoming a little jealous. How come Huey got to go free and he didn't?

"Believe me, Gin Rummy, I am paying for my crimes," Huey answered. "My parents are gone, and we're stuck with our granddad. I have to watch is the world becomes more, and not less, just, even after years of seeking change. And the worst part is being completely disillusioned. Do you know how many times Jazmine has come up to me, wanting a friend to join her in her happy world, and I've turned her down? Believe me, I wish I could be like all the other kids. Naïve and carefree. Even Riley's like that, to some extent. But I can't be like them. _That's _my punishment, Gin. And I believe that it fits my own crimes. Crimes not just of violence, but also of thoughts far too disturbing for someone my age. And it's a life sentence, I fear." Gin stared at Huey as he said all this. He could tell the kid meant every word. But…

"That's a load of crap!" Gin declared, promptly leaving. Huey watched as he left, unoffended by this last remark.

"Maybe so, but we all have to pay for our crimes eventually. Now that you've opened your eyes, Gin, Justice will open hers."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

**Trigger warnings: This chapter contains nudity, violence, and a very crass view of women. I rated this whole story M knowing I'd have to eventually write this chapter, although it's not as gruesome as I had originally intended.**

Gin ended up going with Ed to the strip club, feigning excitement along the way. He had wanted to drive them there himself to stop Ed from causing any unnecessary damage along the way, but Ed knew the area well and would have none of it. "Slipped dolla' bills up them asses plenty times," he insisted.

The bouncers had been paid off in advance, with the understanding that very little actual harm would be done to the establishment provided that they were not found to be complicit in the proceedings. One of them was supposed to take an impromptu "smoke break" in a side alley, while the other ushered them in from the front with the regular customers. Gin and Rummy would find a pistol, knife, ski mask, bullet-proof vest, and a smoke grenade canister for each of them, smuggled to them by the bouncer "on break" from Ed's van.

This all occurred as planned without a hitch once they arrived at the club. "Yo, how much to get in?" Ed asked. "Gotta use your bathroom. Promise I ain't gonna piss on no stripper. Not into that stuff."

Gin raised in eyebrow in surprise. He knew Ed was probably just giving a signal, but from the way Ed often discussed—rather, _boasted_—of sexual escapades, he assumed his friend's sexuality was broad-ranged. But Gin had never been one to pry.

_I'm gettin' paid. All that matters here._

"You two can go in if you got the money," one bouncer replied. The other, who looked nearly identical in his suit and sunglasses, realized that was his cue. "I need a smoke, can you man the place for just a bit? You know the boss doesn't like it."

"Yeah, don't want no bitches gettin' no second-hand lung disease!" Ed added, a bit too loudly. The first bouncer nodded.

"Sure thing," he said to all 3 of them. "Have fun tonight, gentlemen," he added to Gin and Rummy while the second bouncer went off to the side alley.

The strip club itself was typical: a black and white-tiled floor dotted with unassuming chairs and tables in the first front, and a platform where the strippers gyrated and hung from poles while men threw wads of cash at them, likely not even knowing how much it wasted. Gin wondered momentarily what life was like for these women. His gaze fixated on a brunette who was deliberately dangling her breasts in front of some patrons. Did she, for example, see herself as a temptress who robbed men of rationality and money, or cursed with having to tease people with a body that ultimately belonged to her?

"You like that one, huh?" Ed nudged Gin on their way to the bathroom. Glancing back at her, Gin scanned the other strippers for a moment to make an observation:

"She didn't dye her hair."

"Who cares? I don't mind me some blue pussy." Gin sighed.

"That's not the point, man."

"Then what is?" Ed asked. He went to the farthest stall at the end of the bathroom to find all of the items lying in the open windowsill. The stall door had even had an "out of order" sign taped on it to deter anyone from noticing the weapons.

"I don't know. She's just a real woman, that's all," Gin said as he accepted his knife, pistol, and smoke grenade. He examined the pistol to find that it was already loaded, and that the bullets were definitely metal rather than rubber.

"Yeah, they all real women, all right. You could see dicks on'em through their panties if they were men."

"No, I mean that she just seemed more…authentic than the rest. More desperate, like she just had to tell herself every day that she loved her job, and…"

"The fuck is _wrong _with you, man?" Ed demanded. "You've been real quiet lately, and just been all mopey lately. Not even strippers cheered you up."

"Yeah, I don't know what's going on," Gin lied. "I just…let's just do this, man." Ed wasn't willing to hear any sort of hesitancy.

"Pretty weird, man. Pretty…queer. Is that it? You're queer, ain't ya? I never seen you with a girl much before. I guess if you wanted a little dick playin' I could do that. But nothin' more."

"No, Ed," Gin told him. "The questions I'm dealin' with have nothing to do with sexual orientation." His sex drive had fallen drastically after his experiences in Iraq, but prior to that he had never really had much sex. There had been one girlfriend in his teenage years, but he couldn't even remember her name, now that he thought about it. "I just don't really know what I'm doin'. I'm starting to think I'm not all right. That I'm pretty messed up."

Ed chuckled, putting on his vest and mask and putting his knife and gun in separate pockets. He grinned at Gin. "Yeah, maybe we are messed up, Gin. But it's all good, man. We got money, we got security, and we're just makin' a livin'. We went through Hell in I-rack, man. We got ourselves shot at, yelled at, blown up, butt-fucked, and slammed down. We shot, we sniped, we bombed, we did what we were told. The desert was where I learned that black guys have a better way of lookin' at things. Yeah, we're white, and so we're on top in the end. But in order to be a badass motherfucker, you gotta act black. Ain't nobody gonna mess with us because they scared of us. You'll see that in just a sec."

"Do you even know what you're sayin', man?" Gin asked his friend. "Does us goin' through rough shit mean we can go run things here like fucked-up cops? America ain't Iraq."

"Maybe not, but I'm just doin' what my grandpa says," Ed countered. "I'm gettin' paid and making these joints safer in the end."

"But does it have to be like this?"

"Shit, I don't know. Don't go all sappy on me and shit. Man, you _are _queer if yer gettin' all sweet and carin' 'bout bitches all of a sudden."

_Or maybe it just makes me more of a man than you. To actually give a fuck about the people we could be hurting._

Ed walked out of the bathroom stall and turned his head to look at Gin before walking out. "But I know the real you, Gin. I know you well enough to know that you like guns and fast cars and big titties and cash just like me. So don't give me any more bullshit, a'ight? Now let's liven up this place." Gin said nothing, wanting to think about Ed's words, but knowing it was better to just follow him.

"Yeah, sure, just let me turn my safety off."

Ed burst open the door of the bathroom and tossed a smoke grenade towards the strippers' platform, screaming "All y'all get the fuck down!" In a very similar manner as he had said in the jewelry store not long ago. The patrons and women screamed and rushed about, and Gin cautiously pointed a gun in front of himself. It occurred to him that the manager might not be in on the plot and was packing some heat of his own preparation for something like this. He heard a female voice shout, "He's got a gun!" amidst the chaos, but all Gin did with it was point it at people to shoo them away from him and point him to the cash register. One frightened man pointed towards it, at the end of the bar opposite the smoke from the smoke grenade. Gin went over to it and looked at the cash inside, pausing just a moment to decide whether or not he should take it all out. Passing by him was a stripper, the same one he had noticed before, wrapping her body in the coat of some man's suit but otherwise naked save for a pair of green panties. She saw him emptying out the cash register, and he cautiously pointed a gun at her to discourage her from going outside. She froze in fear, her body facing him so that she could hand him the money she had accumulated on her body from her work that she hadn't cared to place into the coat pockets on account of the fact that she was now fleeing for her life.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she realized the desperate situation she was in. "Please, just take it!" she cried, referring to the money she held out before him. "Just leave me alone, I don't want to die! I didn't ask for this!"

_Ask for this? Ask for what? Is it still a good excuse for ending up in the situation you're in? _Gin wondered. Did she mean that she hadn't wanted this? Did all strippers feel this way? Did it even matter, if they were as impersonal as Ed made them out to be?

Gin grew angry; not with her, but himself. "Who gives a fuck?" he said out loud, more to her than himself but loud enough so that he would hear. Money and a helpless naked woman used to being objectified by men were in front of him, and all of it was ultimately for good. He got money. The strip club got their protection back. Ed got his pride and morals verified. And her? She would be taken care of. She would not regret one moment with him, Gin promised himself. And he would not regret one minute of time spent with this woman, he knew. Maybe she would even love him, for getting her out of here, for keeping her safe from all of this crap, for making the world a safer place for her and for every business owner in Woodcrest.

"Don't you walk outa here!" came a yell from Ed. A shot rang out, and the stripper crumpled to the floor. "Aw, man, I thought she was a man with the suit on!"

Gin stood frozen in shock as Ed kicked the woman to see if she was still alive. She gave no response. Ed sighed but showed no remorse. "Dang, she was a hot bitch, too. I can see why you dug her. Looks like some undertakers gotta dig her now, heh heh. Come on, let's get outta here." Gin shoved aside the cash register, which still had some money in it that he hadn't been able to stuff into his vest pockets.

"That was no _bitch_!" Gin shouted over the panic of the strip club upon realizing that someone was dead. "You just don't give a fuck about anything, do you?"

"The world is ours, Gin. Don't go throwin' it away now," Ed replied casually. Firing a few more shots into the crowd, uncaring whether or not he shot someone else, he added, "Now let's get back. Gramps'll cover for us."

Fury arose in Gin Rummy then. Stealing, cheating, hurting others, and sex with whomever you pleased had its good points, but watching Ed kill a defenseless, nearly naked woman in cold blood, especially when she yearned for a purpose outside of her current job—a sentiment he could share—crossed the line. This was war now.

He took withdrew his knife from his vest and thrust it forward.

**AN: It's been over a year since I worked on this. It's not that I suddenly lost interest. The truth was that I just didn't want to write this chapter. I felt like I couldn't, or shouldn't write about a strip club or crime that occurs there. But, I finally got over it, as you can see.**

**If anyone's still reading, reviews would be appreciated.**


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